Diamonds and Rust
by New Konoiche
Summary: It is 1965 and Regina's grandmother, Cordelia, appears to have everything. Yet she is miserable. Years later, Cordelia shares her story - of deep sadness and pain, but also of love - with Regina, Gretchen and their friends. T just to be safe for some pretty heavy themes.
1. Prologue: Cordelia and Gretchen

Prologue: Cordelia and Gretchen:

It seems like no matter what, Gretchen is always in a hurry. She could leave an hour early and still show up late, out-of-breath, flustered and apologizing like crazy. In fact, "sorry I'm late," has become her default greeting. She's feeling more flustered than usual today, butterflies in her stomach, as she enters Pine Hills Assisted Living to see Regina's grandmother without Regina.

Pine Hills looks more like a fancy hotel or the most luxurious apartment complex in the world than an assisted living, with a fountain at the entrance and enormous, modern-looking windows. Truth be told, her dorm at Oberlin looks much more old-fashioned. When Gretchen first heard that Regina's relatively young grandmother (at 72, Cordelia was a good two-decades younger than Grandma Olga) was moving to an assisted living after a hip injury, she was surprised, even as Regina told her it was temporary and mostly because neither Henry nor Regina's aunt Lucille wanted Cordelia anywhere near them and Cordelia, who liked her space, didn't want to be stuck with a live-in nurse. Cordelia's own house was so large and contained so many staircases that it didn't seem reasonable – plus, it was much too big for one person and Regina's grandfather had died years ago, before Regina, Ricky and Kylie had even been born. Looking at it Pine Hills now, however, Gretchen thinks that one could almost ignore the circumstances and pretend Cordelia and her housemates were guests at a posh resort.

"May I help you?" asks the perky, perfectly made-up woman behind the counter.

"Yeah," says Gretchen, "Um, I'm here to visit Cordelia George? Sorry I'm late, she adds.

The woman looks down at her watch. "They should be at lunch now," she says. "Out on the veranda."

"Aw," says Cordelia, looking up from the nurse, a large black woman named Trisha, "See, here she is now. I told you my granddaughter and her friend were coming." Trisha rolls her eyes and stalks away, perhaps to bother some other resident.

"Sorry I'm late," Gretchen says again, in what is possible and even smaller, more timid voice than she used at the front desk.

Cordelia shrugs good-naturedly. "What are a few more minutes? I'm old after all."

Gretchen can't quite tell if she's joking or not, but she smiles anyway.

"Why don't we go outside?" Cordelia suggests, although with Cordelia, suggestions are demands. "We could have some tea."

When Gretchen first met Regina in fifth grade, it was almost like meeting royalty – her cool, regal confidence radiated from her. She seemed both distant and utterly approachable at the same time. Cordelia is exactly the same way. Even at 72, she is beautiful, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun, her firm jawline with full lips giving the smallest trace of a smile – or is it a smirk? her perfectly filed nails shiny, her posture straight and head held high. Grandma Olga's skin is saggy and yellow-tinted, but Cordelia's wrinkles around her mouth and eyes are barely visible.

At first, Gretchen was just as afraid of Cordelia as she initially was of Regina. But somehow, Cordelia had taken to her almost immediately. "Any friend of Regina's is a friend of mine," she had said and Gretchen had felt warm and tingly in the pit of her stomach.

"So, where's Regina?" Cordelia asks.

"Oh," says Gretchen quickly. "She went to get Dairy Queen. She'll be here soon."

Cordelia wrinkles her nose. "Dairy Queen? It's much too cold for that. Anyway, while we're waiting, you may as well sit down. So," she asks after taking a dainty sip of tea, the way fancy ladies in movies about Victorian Era England do, "how are things going with Mike?"

Gretchen bites her lip. "Ugh," she says.

"Ugh?" Cordelia repeats. "That bad?"

One thing Gretchen really likes about Cordelia is that she really takes the time to listen when Gretchen complains. Then again, it could be that she has nothing better to do, but it's still better than Gretchen's mother, who still insists Mike is the best thing since sliced bread, or Regina who keeps insisting that Gretchen just break up with him already.

"I don't really know what to do anymore," Gretchen says. "It's just all about him and his problems all the time. I mean, I want to help him," she adds, perhaps a little too vehemently, "but I'm just so tired of feeling like he's more important than me."

Cordelia is quiet for a moment. "Do you love him?" she asks.

"I-I don't know," Gretchen replies. She's thought about this a lot. She knows she used to before Mike started calling her in the middle of class, angry that she couldn't drop everything to hang out with him, before he lost his temper at her for not wanting to share a poem she wrote in eighth grade and a writer's workshop, before he was diagnosed with an illness of the brain that made it impossible to blame him for any of his erratic behavior. "I mean, we've only been dating for two years and we're only 20…but it just feels like everything is so hard with him. Is it supposed to be this hard?"

Cordelia ponders this for a second. "They certainly can be, especially when one of the partners is sick. You should be kind to him. He's going through something very difficult."

 _Aw_ , Gretchen thinks, _here it is again_. The same old "you-have-to-be-nice-and-patient-with-him-and-be-the-bigger-person" bullshit she's used to hearing from practically everyone ever, aside from Regina who has never liked Mike in the slightest.

"At the same time, though," Cordelia says, "you're going through something difficult, too. And at some point, you have to put yourself first. You should be kind to yourself, too."

"Was it like that for you and Regina's grandpa?' Gretchen asks. "Was it hard, I mean?"

"Yes," says Cordelia, looking straight ahead, her eyes sad and far away. "Very hard."

"How did you meet him anyway?"

"Actually," says Cordelia. "I was just about your age. A little younger, even. I had just finished my first year of college at Wellesley and I don't think I had ever been so miserable…"


	2. Part One: Lost in Paradise

Part One: Lost in Paradise

May, 1965

Some people are just born broken – with something missing in their hearts or souls or minds, or perhaps even a combination of all three. Cordelia is quickly beginning to realize she is one of these people. What else could explain it? After all, as her father has so kindly pointed out half a million times, she has everything a person could want: a mansion with a swimming pool surrounding a silver fountain, eight thoroughbred horses, boys lined up wanting to date her, and more diamond necklaces than any sane person could possibly want. And yet, to say she is miserable is so much of an understatement it is almost insulting. She always thought the fountain was ridiculously over-the-top and the boys were dull and snooty and the diamond necklaces, while nice, only served to make her look like she was trying to be better than everyone else – which is ridiculous, as she doesn't think she is better than anyone.

And as for the horses? She hates them. She hated them growing up when her father would spend days on end preparing for horse shows and snipping at her whenever she tried to talk to him about anything else. She hated them when her friends at school – horse-crazy like any other preteen in the country not named Cordelia – squealed about how lucky she was. And she especially hates them now, as she stumbles out of Nick's new black Porsche and stares at the tasteful party that has nothing to do with her homecoming from her first year at Wellesley.

Her head is killing her, possibly literally, but this is nothing new. Ever since the day she started first freshman semester, she has had a migraine every single Wednesday. Actually every single Thursday, too, now that she thinks about it. And at least every other Saturday, also. She's not even sure if they are separate headaches or just variations of the same long, drawn-out migraine. In either case, it's different every time: some days, she wakes up with it, a band of pain across her eyes. Some days it's sharp like an ice pick, others dully throbbing like a hammer. Sometimes, she sees all kinds of flashing lights. Some days, she feels icy cold all over, as if she has been doused in liquid Nitrogen, while others she feels sweaty and overheated. But it's always there, draped over her like a shawl. Today is a special kind of headache, though – one that somehow manages to combine all the worst qualities of her usual migraines. It comes in alternating waves of sharp, hot pain behind her eyes and dull throbbing across her sinuses. Her jaw aches as if all her teeth are about to crumble out of her skull. She's lightheaded, too, and feels like the ground is moving, even though they are outside the car.

"Well," says Nick, slamming the door behind him. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Cordelia repeats flatly.

He claps a hand on her shoulder and she flinches. "Welcome home, Cordy."

"I told you not to call me that," Cordelia says tightly. She meant it to sound light-hearted and teasing, but instead, she sounds like she is choking on the words. Now that she's here, she realizes she's nervous. She hasn't seen her parents since Christmas Break – and that was certainly a less-than-ideal experience, as her father had been too worried about how Aurelius had been limping recently and her mother kept bothering her about why she didn't have a boyfriend yet. Just like at Wellesley, her nervousness has the odd effect of making her tired – completely drained, actually – and she longs for her bed. She suddenly feels like she might throw up, even though she hasn't eaten since this morning, when she had M&M's for breakfast.

"So, you think Mom and Dad have someone new to set you up with?" asks Nick.

For some reason, Cordelia thinks the only way to prevent herself from hurling all over the driveway is to keep talking. So, she does just that – talking both a little too quickly and a little too loudly. "I don't think so," she says. "Wouldn't that take away the attention from Princess Charlemagne?" Charlemagne (that is "Prince Charlemagne", not "Princess") is Rodolpho's newest stallion, who apparently just won a major horse show of some sort. Perhaps not coincidently, Rodolpho and Jane purchased Charlemagne only two weeks before Cordelia left for college. Cordelia can't help but feel slightly bitter about this.

Nick's smile is a bit tense – more of a smirk than anything and Cordelia's pulse speeds up. "You know, I bet I'm the only girl in the history of ever who DIDN'T want horses growing up," she says. "I always wished they were something else: like maybe llamas or birds or ostriches or something. Or maybe, like, a random assortment of penguins." Cordelia is well aware that ostriches and penguins are, in fact, birds, but she's also well aware that she is feeling slightly hysterical. Maybe she and Nick would have been better off stopping at the psyche ward on the way home.

Nick shakes his head. He sighs and turns away from her. "Yeah, Cordelia. I know you feel like that. We grew up together remember? We've had this exact same conversation."

Cordelia is shocked by the venom in his voice. "What?" she says, stupidly, even though she knows very well what he said.

Nick curls his lip like an angry dog or like the horses when they are displeased. "God, I'm so sick of you." His voice is cold, sharp, and almost inaudible.

"What?" says Cordelia again. "What do you mean sick of me?" The pounding in her head has suddenly increased tenfold and her skin prickles. Although he is thirteen years older than she is, Nick has always been there and he has never been anything but patient, in his sarcastic, joking, often manic way, even when, yes, admittedly, her complaining was somewhat annoying.

"Forget it," says Nick.

"No," says Cordelia, her eyes prickling with tears. "You can't just say something like that and then say 'forget it.' What do you mean you're sick of me? Since when? What exactly about me are you so sick of?"

Nick sighs again. "Just…" he pauses. "I don't know, just…this. All you do is whine. I get it. You don't like the horses. You don't like our parents. I know. I've heard. I was there."

Cordelia feels her throat closing up. "Oh, as if you're so perfect?" she asks, not entirely sure where this is coming from. "You hate them too! You hate all of this too!"

"Sure, maybe when I was a kid, yeah, but at some point, it's time to grow out of this Poor Little Rich Girl routine."

Cordelia hates Nick all of a sudden and the feeling is so unusual, she is terrified. She feels somehow lost – lost because Nick has always been the one person she could trust and now even Nick is tired of her. And then, she thinks that maybe Nick should be tired of her. And really, who wouldn't?

"Let's just go in," says Nick, obviously pretending the conversation never happened.

But Cordelia doesn't move. "I feel sick," she says, staring up at the house.

Nick throws his head back and sighs so dramatically, Cordelia is startled and turns to face him.

"Now what's your problem?" she asks huffily.

"You feel sick. Go figure. When don't you feel sick?" Nick says coldly.

It is true, Cordelia has to admit. Ever sense the semester began she has constantly felt sick in at least one way. When it's not her head, it's her stomach, when not her stomach, her throat. At first, she thought this was a normal freshman problem, but she knows in her heart that it isn't normal to go through each day with a knot in her stomach, a lump in her throat and a constant dizzy feeling she cannot seem to shake. Still, the way Nick brings it up so condescendingly – so maliciously, even – makes her angry.

"You're right," she snaps. "You don't have to be such an asshole about it, though."

Cordelia suddenly wants to strike back at Nick and to hurt him as much as he just hurt her. "Maybe Mom and Dad are going to try to set you up with someone for once," she says, glaring at him. "It's so ridiculously sexist that they're worried about me not being married yet when you've never even had a girlfriend. Hypocritical much?" Cordelia has long believed that Nick is either gay or asexual, but the family has, for some reason, never brought the subject up. In fact, most of Nick's faults are swept under the rug, including his often wild behavior, his tendency to quickly blow through money and the fact that Rodolpho and Jane are still supporting him financially at the age of 32.

Nick glares at Cordelia long and hard, when suddenly, Jane Giovicci, dressed in a bright Easter egg shade of blue dress and a large sunhat, emerges from the house, a tall martini glass in hand. Cordelia recently saw a horror movie called _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ , and she cannot think of a better way to describe her mother. Jane is permanently smiling so widely, her jaw should dislocate and her face should snap in two. "Cordelia!" Jane leans in and gives her daughter a light peck on the cheek, holding her at arm's length. "How was the drive?"

"Fine," says Cordelia at the exact time Nick mutters, "awful."

Cordelia has to admit Nick is right about the drive – five hours from outside Boston to Philadelphia that mainly consisted of Nick trying to convince Cordelia to eat something and Cordelia making embarrassingly awkward small talk, such as when she thought the lunch Nick ordered was a filet carved into the shape of a fish, rather than an actual dead fish or when she tried to start a conversation about a receipt for wrapping paper that she found on the floor of the car. She knew she was being annoying, but somehow, she couldn't stop the constant stream of ridiculousness that spewed out of her mouth. It was weird, because although Cordelia had been beyond socially awkward at Wellesley, she had always felt relatively at-ease around Nick. Then again, Nick had seemed much less tolerant of her jokes than usual during the drive.

"And how was school?" Jane asks, ignoring Nick.

"School was…you, know. School, I guess," says Cordelia, even though she knows this is a lame statement that doesn't make any sense.

Jane eyes her carefully and squints, the wrinkles of her mouth turning slightly downward. "You look thin. Haven't you been eating well?"

Cordelia remembers her breakfast of M&Ms and shrugs. The truth is, when you have a migraine almost 3 days every week, you lose much of your appetite. "Well, you know how most freshmen gain fifteen pounds?" she says lightly. "Guess it was kind of reverse freshman fifteen in my case."

"That never happens," snips Jane.

"Well, it must," Cordelia says, her voice still light even though her heart is racing. "Or maybe I'm just special."

Jane rolls her eyes. "Honestly, you look like a Concentration Camp victim."

Cordelia thinks that Jane is one to talk. Perhaps Cordelia has lost some weight during freshmen semester, but she still has more meat on her bones than Jane, who has always reminded her of a bobble-head or a Jack-in-the-Box with her oversized head and undersized arms, torso and legs. Cordelia is also, in spite of everything, unsurprised at Jane's reaction to her. Jane and Cordelia have never had anything more than a surface-level relationship – one that Cordelia thought worked much better when they were five hours apart. Referencing Concentration Camp victims, on the other hand? That's tasteless even for Jane. "Wow, Mom," Cordelia mumbles. "That's incredibly tasteful."

"And try to smile," says Jane briskly. "You'll look less creepy that way."

Cordelia grimaces and Jane smirks and strides back into the foyer. "Maybe you should smile less," Cordelia says under her breath. "You'll look less creepy that way, Mommy Dearest."

Nick touches her shoulder lightly. "You going to be okay?" he asks.

Cordelia grinds her teeth together and nods, then shakes her head. The room is exceptionally loud, filled with the laughter and raucous conversations of people who are twice Cordelia's age, but somehow possess at least three-times as much energy. "Ugh, well, it will only be a couple of hours, right? I guess I'll live. Hopefully," She says, but Nick has already disappeared.

"Cordelia! Oh my God!" She looks up to see her high school friend, Anne, face flushed and eyes sparkling happily, rushing towards her. It is all Cordelia can do to attempt to match her friend's enthusiasm. It's not that she doesn't want to see Anne. She just would rather see Anne when she isn't feeling ready to literally keel over.

"Anne, hi!"

Anne gives Cordelia a generous hug, but when they pull away, things become awkward. "How's Wellesley?" asks Anne.

"It's good," says Cordelia. "How's Brown?"

"Great!" says Anne.

Things shouldn't be so awkward. Anne has been Cordelia's best friend since first grade when they were paired together for a diorama assignment, a word that, as first graders, they couldn't stop laughing at and comparing to diarrhea. If things are awkward, it is entirely Cordelia's fault. When they both left for school, she and Anne had agreed to call each other from the dorm telephones at least once a week. Early in the semester, Anne had constantly kept up her end of the bargain and was always overflowing with enthusiasm about her classes and her fun roommate and her potential new boyfriend. Cordelia, on the other hand, quickly came to dread the weekly phone calls and eventually, started to pretend to "accidently forget" to call Anne – or, more frequently, to "accidently" not be around when Anne called.

Wellesley was incredibly old school and didn't allow phones in the rooms, so all calls had to be made in public. Cordelia told herself that this was at least part of the reason for the awkwardness, but the truth was, compared to Anne, she had embarrassingly little to report. If they had still been in high school, Cordelia would have been able to gossip about and make fun of her 90-year-old civics professor and her uptight roommate Ariel for hours on end – making Anne snort with laughter with her completely over-the-top descriptions of everything. But now, separated by a scant 60 minute commute, she found that her mouth was dry and that words – sarcastic barbs and all - died in her throat.

Gradually, talking to Anne became just one of many things Cordelia no longer enjoyed. In high school, despite her penchant for making fun of the snobby popular girls, whom she and Anne existed on the fringes of, Cordelia had been a relatively snazzy dresser herself – perhaps one of the only things she had inherited from her mother. Now, there are days when even the effort of putting her hair in a high ponytail leaves her utterly exhausted. She used to love theater and from the time she played Puck in her fifth grade class's production of _A Midsummer's Night Dream_ , she had been a natural at improve comedy. Now, in her acting classes, she sits stone still while classmates work through exercises, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. She used to love swimming, despite her hatred for her family's silver fountain. Now, she can hardly stay afloat and the chlorine stings her eyes and makes her dizzy and nauseated. She can barely eat without feeling sick to her stomach. She still loves books, but hates the way the words blur, the sentences don't make any sense and her eyelids droop with the effort of staying awake, regardless of how many hours of sleep she had the night before.

The first semester, when she wasn't in class or didn't have a migraine, Cordelia spent a ridiculous amount of hours in the library reading Shakespeare and Sylvia Plath and Virginia Wolfe and Emily Dickinson. There were other people, she realized, who were born broken, too. Given the fates of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Wolfe, however, she wasn't sure she could take comfort in this knowledge or not. On weekends, when the library was closed, days seemed torturously long, even when she awoke at 11:30, watched _Peyton Place_ and _I Dream of Jeanie_ and reruns of _Wile. E Coyote_ until almost 3:00 in the afternoon and went to bed at 8:00. Her roommates, Ariel and Stephanie, were aloof, but not unpleasant, although Ariel was a bit of a neat freak. They left her alone for the most part, never trying to coax her out of her self-imposed hermitdom. At first, Cordelia was glad that her roommates weren't nosy, but now she can't help wishing they had tried at least a little. The other girls on her floor and in her classes were not unkind, either, but their eyes became glassy and their mouths turned slightly downward in confusion whenever she said anything. Watching the easy way they flitted about their days made her chest feel tight and her throat prickle with tears, frustration and sadness.

In a way, Cordelia was almost grateful for the migraines – which she had been getting since middle school, but never with as much intensity or frequency – because they gave her a valid excuse to crawl under her covers and lie perfectly still, staring at the ceiling with a wet towel draped over her forehead, waiting desperately for the Alka-Seltzer/Aspirin combo to kick in. The nurse at the student health center had been certain Cordelia's headaches were a result of stress and she urged Cordelia to talk to someone in the counseling center, an idea that made Cordelia feel icy chills and prickly heat all at the same time. "I'll think about it," she had said, her face flushing and her heart racing so fast she felt a physical ache in her chest. She could only imagine how Rodolpho would respond to that suggestion.

"Oh, hey, there's Pauline!" says Anne, motioning towards their high school classmate, her mouth opened in a wide smile, her blonde curls bouncing like accordions and her head thrown back in laughter. Cordelia cringes involuntarily. "We should probably go say hi," Anne adds, looking apologetic. Throughout their school career, both Anne and Cordelia secretly hated Pauline, the loud-mouthed alpha of their clique (or rather, the clique they only sometimes belonged to) – but Anne was always much better at hiding her distaste. In retrospect, Pauline had never actually been that bad, but, much like the girls at Wellesley, she often talked to Cordelia more slowly than she did to anyone else and in a much higher-pitched voice, as if Cordelia was at least ten years younger or a non-sentient animal.

"Ugh, seriously?" Cordelia says, rolling her eyes. "I mean, Pauline's great and everything, but I'm pretty sure she thinks I ride the short bus."

Anne sniggers and suddenly, Cordelia feels right back at home. It's unfortunate, she thinks, that her comfort zone comes at poor Pauline's expense. She grabs Anne by the arm and leans in.

"What?" Anne asks, smiling slightly, even though Cordelia is sure they have had this conversation almost as often as she and Nick have discussed how she wished the horses were birds. "She does not!"

"Oh no? You've never noticed how she gets all high-pitched? Like, 'hello, Cordelia? How are you?' I mean, seriously. Why does she do that? I'm not retarded." Cordelia has to admit, though, that in some ways Pauline's reaction to her makes sense. If there was ever a definition for "more Anne's friend," than Pauline certainly qualifies. Really, Pauline (and most of the other girls in the clique) put up with Cordelia only because Anne liked her. Sure, Cordelia was pretty – maybe not more so than Pauline, who was Marilyn Monroe level attractive, but certainly prettier than Anne – but she also knew she came across as at least slightly "weird." The wit she displayed around Nick and around Anne never managed to translate when she was in the company of anyone else. In fact, she could barely have a conversation with Pauline without tripping over her words, as Pauline regarded her with a look of pity.

"Oh, come on," says Anne, who was pretty much always the nice one in their friendship – ridiculously nice, sometimes. This is probably why, in spite of her average looks, she had always been more popular with the boys than Cordelia. "I think that's just her voice."

Cordelia shakes her head. "Nu-uh," she says. "Listen for it. She talks completely normally to everyone else. I guarantee it: she'll be like," she pauses and says in a normal, monotone voice: "hi, Anne. How is college? And then: 'hello, Cordelia? How's living at home? Oh sorry, you go to college, too? Wellesley? Wow? That's really great? Good for you?"

Usually, Anne would be laughing at this, but now she is quiet and subdued. "I'm sure she doesn't think that," she says.

Cordelia is absolutely right about Pauline's greeting – which is almost word-for-word what she acted out for Anne – but it doesn't feel like a victory given the way Anne ruined the moment just seconds earlier. She tunes out and focuses on the rhythmic pounding in her temples as Anne and Pauline chatter on about who-knows-what. "He's funny," Cordelia hears Pauline mutter and notices that both of the girls are focusing intently on her.

"Yeah," she says faintly. "He's hilarious." She has no idea who "he" could possibly be and suddenly wishes she hadn't said anything.

Pauline stares at her blankly for what seems to be a whole minute, but can't possibly be more than a few seconds. "I mean he's funny as in weird?" she says, predictably returning her tone to baby-talk, but also with a faint hint of condescension.

"Oh," Cordelia mumbles. "Right. I should go talk to my dad," she adds and hurries away.

Off to the side she hears Pauline scoff. "It is so uncomfortable talking to her," she whispers.

"C'mon," says the always-faithful-and-kind-Anne. "She's actually really cool."

"Well, okay," says Pauline lightly. "If you say so. She's your friend, after all."

On the way over to Rodolpho, Cordelia grabs a wine glass filled with clear liquid from a tray, even though she doesn't really want it.

Her father looks up from his probably fascinating conversation about West Nile Virus with the horse's vet when he sees her approach.

"Cordelia," he says, in a tone that sounds calm and bored, despite his flushed cheeks and the tall glass of bright red wine in his hand. He touches the vet lightly on the arm and slowly makes his way over to her. "There's someone here I'd like to introduce you to."

 _Great_ , Cordelia thinks, _another set up_. She tries to ignore the sting she feels at the back of her throat because her father didn't even bother with a "how are you?" or an "it's good to see you." Not that she expected it, really, she tells herself. In spite of everything, Cordelia is convinced that her father does legitimately love her. He's just horrible at showing any kind of affection to anyone who lacks fur and hooves.

To Cordelia's surprise, her father wants to introduce her not to a potential boyfriend, but to a Very Important Potential Client. "This is Gideon George," he says and Cordelia fumbles with her drink in order to shake his large, meaty hand. Gideon must be around her father's age – he's silver-haired and stocky, with a firm grip – but when she shakes his hand, he looks her directly in the eye and smiles a warm, genuine smile, greenish eyes sparkling in the crystal light of the chandeliers. Cordelia feels blood rush to her face. Perhaps it's just the migraine, she thinks, as Gideon George is far from the type of guy she usually goes for.

"Pleasure to meet you," says Gideon George. "Your father mentioned you go to Wellesley."

Cordelia can only nod as she is starting to feel all kinds of feverish.

Suddenly, the woman beside Gideon, whom Cordelia hadn't even noticed, springs to life and steps forward. "I'm Patience," she says, which Cordelia has never before heard as a name for a human being. She's small and slight with straight, thin, ebony hair, and she looks like she can't be much older than Cordelia. "Gideon's fiancée," she adds. As Patience leans in, Cordelia is assaulted by a scent of pear-mixed-with-vanilla-mixed-with-laundry-detergent-smelling perfume that is so vile, she almost gags. Quickly, she shoves her nose and mouth into her wine glass and takes a huge swallow of the bitter, acidic liquid that smells like shoe polish. She chokes and starts coughing.

"Are you okay?" Gideon George says.

"Um, t-that wasn't water," Cordelia points out brilliantly. Rodolpho rolls his eyes.

The human being named Patience steps forward and gently touches a perfectly manicured finger to one of Cordelia's earrings. Cordelia is so surprised, she completely misses the words coming out of Patience's mouth.

"Um…What?" she asks.

Patience rolls her eyes and repeats herself, but to Cordelia it looks like her lips are moving wordlessly. Cordelia shakes her head quickly as static fills her ears. "Sorry, what?" she asks again.

Patience, who clearly doesn't live up to her name at all, sighs. "I said," she starts, but again, her words come out garbled.

Cordelia knows very well that there is nothing more awkward than asking someone to repeat themselves three times in a row, so she figures she should just answer. Despite her migraine making her head feel fuzzy, she is able to conclude that Patience probably said something about her earrings. Now the only question is what exactly about them? "I like your earrings?" "Where did you get your earrings?" "I have a pair of earrings just like those?" "May I borrow your earrings?" Unfortunately, all of these require slightly different responses. Naturally, Cordelia gives a single word answer that doesn't actually match any of the scenarios. "Yeah," she says.

Patience gives her the exact same smile she is so used to seeing from Pauline and the girls at Wellesley – an "I feel sorry for you because you are clearly special" smile.

"Cordelia, may I talk to you alone for a second," Rodolpho says his mouth close to her ear and his voice tense and quiet.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Cordelia says, because what else is there to say? She follows Rodolpho into the hall.

"Are you drunk?" her father asks, once they are a safe distance away from everyone else.

"What? No!" Cordelia says a bit too quickly. But in the back of her mind she wonders, _am I_? She did swallow nearly an entire glass of Vodka. Or Tequila. Or perhaps Gin. Cordelia is no expert on alcohol, but, as she has seen Rodolpho take his daily nightcap or Rum mixed with Whiskey, she is able to differentiate clear spirits from the darker ones. She clears her throat. "I mean, no. I'm fine. Why?" Of course, she knows why. Clearly, her behavior around Gideon and Patience went somehow beyond typical Cordelia awkwardness. She knows she should feel ashamed, but she's too tired, dizzy and nauseated to feel anything other than the desire to crawl into her childhood bed, pull the covers over her head and hibernate until next fall – which, she can't help thinking in a small corner of her mind, would make her the exact opposite of bears or raccoons or skunks or any other animals that hibernate during the winter.

Eventually, Cordelia realizes Rodolpho has been talking and that his voice is rising both in volume and pitch. But all she can make out is "blah, blah, potential client…very unprofessional…embarrassing…"

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, keeping her eyes on the floor because everything spins when she looks up. "I'm not feeling well. I have a really, really bad migraine." Rodolpho lets out air through his nose, making him sound almost exactly like one of the horses. He says nothing. "It was a hard semester," Cordelia adds, suddenly angry that no one in her family bothered to ask about it. And she welcomes this surge of anger as it clears her head for a second and distracts from the pain. "And a really, really long drive," she adds, which again, is met by silence from her father. "I'm just really tired," Cordelia says, almost positive she isn't helping her case with all the "reallies." Rodolpho rolls his eyes in a way that even Nick would probably find exaggerated. "And I didn't even want to come to this dumb party in the first place," Cordelia snaps and, she suddenly wonders if she is drunk after all.

"Oh, yes, you're so put upon," sneers Rodolpho. "It must be so difficult coming home to your beautiful house where you get to live for free to see all your family and friends."

Cordelia is suddenly so angry, she can't breathe. "This party isn't even for me," she says through clenched teeth. "You don't even care that I'm home for the summer at all. You haven't even _asked_ me how college was! This party would be exactly the same if I was here or not." She knows she sounds ridiculously immature and spoiled – babyish, even, but she continues to press on before her father has a chance to either confirm or deny the claim. "And also, I have a really bad migraine," she says, only vaguely aware that she already told him this.

"Cordelia, you really need to stop doing this," says Rodolpho firmly.

"Stop doing what?"

"This headache business," says Rodolpho.

"Well, I don't get headaches on purpose," Cordelia says. "And I can't stop them just because you tell me to. Believe me, if I could just decide to stop having them, I would."

He rolls his eyes again and Cordelia is almost surprised that he doesn't have a headache, too, from all that eye-rolling. "You know, I sometimes think you just use 'not feeling well' as an excuse to avoid doing things you don't like. You're the girl who cried wolf," he adds.

It takes Cordelia a second to realize he is referring to "The Boy who Cried Wolf," which, other than _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , is probably Cordelia's least favorite children's story. "Babyish," she mutters.

She isn't sure if he didn't hear her or if he just chose to ignore her comment or if maybe, she didn't really say it out loud. Whatever the case, Rodolpho talks right over her.

"I don't get you," he says, sounding not angry, but actually legitimately confused. "You know what I think your problem is?" he asks.

Cordelia actually would kind of like to know what he thinks her problem is and she says so.

Rodolpho sighs. "Your problem is you don't realize how good you have it. You don't appreciate what you have. You're spoiled and immature and whiny. Do you know how many girls your age would do anything to have what you have? Really, Cordelia, what's so bad about your life?" This last part sounds so cold and harsh that Cordelia feels shivers run up and down her spine and her heart seems to drop into her stomach where they merge together into one organ. In the psychology class she took this semester, she learned that there are a certain set of primary emotions each person has (although psychologists tended to disagree on the number). However, almost all the theorists seemed to agree that two of these emotions are disgust and anger. Cordelia doesn't think Rodolpho's look or his tone of voice indicate anger, however, or disgust – but instead something much deeper and darker. He hates her.

Luckily, someone else, a personal friend of Charlemagne's, apparently, based on the photo he's carrying around of Charlemagne as a foal, approaches to ask some arbitrary question about the horse show and Rodolpho turns to follow him out of the room.

Still trembling, Cordelia stands outside, staring out at the pool – not a hot tub, but constantly kept at a temperature of 90-95 degrees. The heat rising from the water and the steady slosh of the dark waves calms her momentarily and briefly takes the edge off her headache. She closes her eyes and breathes in the steam, keeping her head and neck completely still as she listens to the chatter of the other partygoers. The uncomfortable pounding in her chest starts to slow and the tightness in her throat dissipates. But only slightly. Her stomach settles and her nausea starts to wane. But only slightly. The world starts to slow and stop spinning around her. But only slightly.

"I thought you said we were leaving for Tahiti tomorrow," someone to the left of her scoffs. Cordelia turns her head, which causes stars to dance in front of her eyes. She sees that the voice belongs to Patience, who seems to stand behind a wall of wavy, aquarium glass.

"What?" snaps Patience, again proving that her parents should have named her Impatience instead – not that that is any more of a name than Patience itself.

"Uh, nothing sorry," says Cordelia.

Patience narrows her eyes and turns back to Gideon. "This ruins everything," she snaps. "Couldn't you have told me sooner?"

"Patience, please don't make a scene," says Gideon. "I told you, Giovicci is a huge potential client."

"He can't hear me," says Patience. "WHAT?" she adds and Cordelia suddenly realizes this is directed at her and that she must still be staring.

"Nothing," she says again, moving her head away from the bickering couple. Again, she moves too fast – much too fast, this time – and as a result, she is met by alternating waves of pain, nausea and terrifying dizziness. Black shadows flicker at the corners of her vision. The whole world tilts and the calm, dark water rushes up to meet her. Everything goes dark and quiet.

Cordelia always thought waking up from fainting would be sort of glamorous. It always is for Shakespearian ladies and Victorian maidens – hell, it's even kind of romantic. But even though she is dressed like she is going to a masquerade ball, it is far from romantic for her – and certainly not glamourous. She coughs and hacks up globs of phlegm, strings of saliva and a huge amount of pool water. As she looks up, her eyes focus on Gideon George, who is crouched next to her.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, eyebrows knitted in concern.

In Victorian Era England, ladies usually answer this question with a breathy "where am I?" or "what happened?"

Cordelia coughs again and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and suddenly realizes her long gloves are soaking wet and plastered to her skin. Suddenly, she's never been so cold. Wetness seems to seep into her pores and settles in her bone marrow. "I-I'm wet," she murmurs. "Wh-why am I wet?"

"Ah," says Gideon. "You…um…went for a swim."

But this makes a grand total of no sense, Cordelia thinks. It's not a swimming party and even if was, why would she be swimming in ball gown attire. "In my clothes?" she says.

"Actually, you fell in," says Gideon.

Cordelia suddenly realizes that he is also sopping wet. His sleeves are rolled up and his hair is slicked across his forehead. "Did you fall in, too?" she asks. "Never mind. Don't answer that. I um…I know you didn't fall in, too."

"I asked Patience to get your father," says Gideon. "And to look for a doctor."

As it turns out, the only doctor in attendance is the horses' vet, but Cordelia supposes this is okay, as humans and horses get at least a few similar ailments, including West Nile Virus. The next thing she knows, she is huddled against her large pillow in her old room dressed in her now-much-too-big red flannel pajamas. She really isn't sure how she got from outside the pool to here and wonders if maybe she passed out again. What she does know is that, somehow, she feels even worse than before. "People often feel pretty worn out after fainting," says the vet and Cordelia can't help but wonder how he knows this. After all, she has never heard of any non-human animal fainting. But, on the other hand, the vet must know what he's talking about, as she feels like every one of her cells has been drained of life-giving fluid and her headache has kicked up several notches so that it is somehow a combination of ice pick and throbbing hammer.

Shockingly, the vet hasn't brought most of his medical tools to Charlemagne's party. He feels her forehead and checks her pulse. "You don't feel feverish," he says, "but your heart is racing."

Cordelia nods. "Yeah, it pretty much always is."

"Hm," says the vet. "Well, here's something I can do with a human patient that I can't do with horses: how are you feeling?"

It takes Cordelia a second to realize he is actually referring to asking her how she feels. "Stupid," she says – and realizes this sums up her feelings perfectly. Sure she's physically exhausted; sure she's still shivering in spite of her warm pajamas; sure her head feels like something is clawing to get out, but somehow, none of this matters. Not when she fell into her own pool and had to be rescued like a pathetic damsel-in-distress by the one person her father was trying to impress. The vet blinks. "Oh, you meant physically?" Cordelia asks. "Just really tired," she says, hugging onto her pillow.

The vet nods. "I'm not an expert," he says, "but it sounds like you are having problems with headaches."

"That's one way to put it," says Cordelia.

"Do you take anything?"

Cordelia thinks for a second. "Aspirin, sometimes. And maybe Alka-Seltzer. Pop, pop, fizz, fizz: oh, what a relief it _isn't_." _Oh, shut the hell up_ , she thinks to herself. _You are beyond not funny_.  
The vet shakes his head. "I think you would probably be better off with something stronger," he says.

"Like a horse tranquilizer?"

He chuckles, even though Cordelia is only half joking. He takes out a pad and pencil and scribbles something down. "When you see your doctor, have him prescribe Vicodin. You shouldn't be having so many of these."

Cordelia's eyes prickle with tears. "I know," she sniffles. "I don't do it on purpose."

"Of course you don't," says the vet, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I think you are probably prone to migraines. I know several people with this condition. It's difficult, but manageable."

After the vet leaves, Cordelia can't help wishing she could remember his name so she could thank him for his kindness. Not just for offering her a Vicodin and a Valium, both of which seemed to materialize out of nowhere, but for actually listening to her, for actually trusting her and, despite the fact that his job involves working primarily with horses, for actually treating her like a goddamn human being – something that she is surprisingly unused to.

The combination of Valium and Vicodin is incredibly effective, too and her dreams seem weirder, more fragmented than usual. She dreams of the horses, but each time, they are somehow wrong. First, they have human faces, then rows of sharp teeth, then school cafeteria chicken nuggets in place of their knees and then finally, are tiny enough to fit inside an apple.

When Cordelia finally awakens, her face pressed to the pillow and sticky with a combination of sweat, tears and drool, the clock reads 10:36 (in all honesty, earlier than she usually gets up on days she doesn't have her 9:30 class). She feels disoriented and foggy, but her headache is almost entirely gone, replaced by only a dull soreness across her sinuses. She sits up and stretches, feeling, all things considered, much better than she has in a very long time. But then, she remembers and it hits her like a ton of bricks. Nick is tired of her whining. Jane thinks she looks like a Concentration Camp victim. Pauline thinks she is cognitively delayed. Her father believes she is spoiled and self-centered and that "what's so bad about her life?" And worst of all, she embarrassed herself in front of everyone by fainting into the pool. Actually, the worst of it is the fact that she is here for the entire summer and that she won't be able to avoid Nick or Jane or Rodolpho no matter how hard she tries.

Cordelia fully expects her parents and her brother to be at the kitchen table, but finds that the room is empty. She is both relieved and slightly disappointed. She uses Jane's new French Press, even though she isn't really much of a fan of coffee unless it is Folger's Instant, which her roommate Stephanie always lets her borrow. Sipping the bitter coffee, she wanders outside and stops at the corral. Adonis trots over and stands a few feet away, staring her directly in the eye.

"Morning, loser," she says. Unlike Pauline, Anne or even Nick, Cordelia has always talked to the horses as if they were people instead of putting on a baby voice – people she doesn't like very much, that is. Adonis nickers and timidly approaches the fence, his head down. Cordelia touches her hand to his nose and gently strokes his snout. He's getting gray around the muzzle, she notes, and is sprouting long whiskers like someone's grandpa. Adonis is the oldest of the horses, nearing forty, but his timid, unassuming nature has always kept him from leading the herd. In fact, Aurelius, Balthazar and especially Charlemagne are quite mean to him – always pushing him out of the way at the water troth and eating his share of hay. Cordelia isn't entirely sure how she even knows this, as she never spends much time with the horses on purpose. Still, she can't help feeling a little sorry for Adonis in his graying chocolate coat. Prince Charlemagne was probably meant to replace him just as much as he was meant to replace Cordelia herself.

Cordelia pulls up some fresh grass and offers it to Adonis, who gently nibbles it, his soft lips tickling her palm. He snorts and shakes his large head up and down. "Nope, no more," she says. "Maybe learn to stand up for yourself, then you won't be so hungry." She pats his neck and stares out across the horizon.

"Good morning," a loud voice says behind her and she turns in surprise, tripping over the edge of the fence and almost dropping her coffee. Gideon George, large hands in pockets, saunters over to her. Suddenly, Cordelia really wishes she had put on make-up or at the very least done something with her hair besides putting it into a messy bun on top of her head. This is to say nothing, of course, of the fact that she is in her flannel pajamas, her mother's yellow Sunflower bathrobe (which, she thinks angrily, doesn't even match with her red pajamas at all) and pink slippers.

"Oh, um, yeah, good morning," she says, her heart pounding. _What are you doing here_? She very nearly adds.

"So, how are you feeling?" asks Gideon. "Any better?"

Cordelia nods. "A little," she admits. "Did you…did you come all this way to check up on me? That's really gentlemanly of you!" She flushes and turns away, aware of how stupid that probably sounded.

Gideon smiles. "Actually, I'm here to talk business with your father, but I figured I would see how you were doing before I left."

Cordelia feels her face turn, if possible, even redder. "God, I didn't mean to sound rude with that gentlemanly comment," she says. "I really, really do appreciate how you…you know…saved my life basically. I mean, God, of course I appreciate it! I wouldn't even be around to tell you I was grateful if not for you. I mean, I really probably could have drowned and I'm really, really sorry you had to get all wet."

Gideon shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says, but leaves it at that.

Unfortunately, even though Gideon seems content to not ask questions, Cordelia keeps rambling on anyway, her pulse and her breathing speeding up along with her words. "I'm not normally such a freak," she says. "I mean, I wasn't drunk or on drugs or anything. I just had a migraine. A really, really bad one."

"Yes, that's what your father said," Gideon replies. "He said you get them sometimes. It's no big deal. Patience often gets heartburn," he adds, even though heartburn and migraines are entirely not the same thing. "So, who's this?" he asks, motioning toward Adonis.

"Oh him? This is Adonis," says Cordelia.

"He's a beautiful animal," says Gideon.

"Yeah, that's why we named him Adonis." Cordelia looks out at the other horses, the mares standing around, flicking their tails and Aurelius, Sebastian and Balthazar near the water troth. "And this is Aurelius, Sabastian, Balthazar, Desdemona, Cleopatra, Cassiopeia and our newest, National Horse Show Award Winner Prince Charlemagne, who last night's gala was all about."

"They're all gorgeous," says Gideon. "Which one is your favorite?" Cordelia has noticed that this kind of thing happens a lot. People tend to assume she likes the horses.

"Oh, I don't have a favorite," she says. "I hate them all equally."

Gideon snorts in surprise and Cordelia smiles. Then, she looks down at her hands and feels a sudden wave of sadness. "I'm serious," she says quietly. "If my dad cared about me even a fraction as much as he cares about these horses…well…" she feels Gideon's eyes boring into her. "I don't really know how to finish that sentence," she concludes.

Gideon shifts his hefty weight from foot to foot and clears his throat. She has made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Cordelia says quickly. "I didn't mean to say something so awkward. You don't want to hear about my family issues. Not that they're issues," she adds hastily, remembering her father's words from the night before. What _is_ so bad about her life, after all? Migraines, for sure, but as the vet noted, many people deal with migraines and manage to have perfectly successful (and happy) lives.

"You know," says Gideon slowly, after an awkward moment of silence. "I've only known your father for a short time, but if you ask me, he's a bit full of himself."

"He is not!" Cordelia blurts out, surprised at the forcefulness behind the claim and the sudden protectiveness she feels toward her father. Because even if she and Nick insult Rodolpho behind his back nearly every chance they get, she has never heard someone outside of the family speak badly of him.

Gideon clears his throat again and his already ruddy cheeks flush. "I-I'm sorry," he stammers – his usual confident manner falling away to be replaced by an oversized shy red-cheeked school boy. "It's not my place to say that."

"No…it's… _I'm_ sorry," says Cordelia. "I don't know why I got so defensive just now. It's not like he and I have a great relationship. Or any relationship," she adds. Her face turns hot and tears swell at the backs of her eyes. This whole conversation feels incredibly disloyal, especially in the company of Rodolpho's prized horses. It is nothing like when she and Nick talk about their parents or even when she and Anne gossip over the phone. There are some things that are just plain inappropriate with a stranger. Cordelia is beginning to realize that bashing her father behind his back is one of them.

"He's a good man," says Gideon. "Actually," he says, patting Adonis gently on the nose – a gentler touch than Cordelia had expected, given his size, "he was very worried about you last night after the incident with the pool."

This is certainly news to Cordelia, who doesn't even remember seeing Rodolpho at all after her fainting spell. Nick was present and accounted for, however, flitting about anxiously and alternating between telling party guests to leave her alone and asking if she needed anything. Jane had also appeared, giving a tight-lipped apology, but also managing to blame Cordelia for the whole thing ("no one would have argued if you had told us you were sick," Jane insisted. Cordelia was very certain this would not have been true.) Perhaps, she thinks, Rodolpho had been there, but she had been so out-of-it that she hadn't noticed.

"Really?" Cordelia asks, wrinkling her nose.

"He was very distraught," says Gideon. "For as long as I've known your father, he's always been very reserved. This was probably the most emotion I have ever seen from him."

Cordelia suddenly feels a sudden rush of warmth swell in her chest cavity. "Really?" she says again. But then she remembers her talk with Rodolpho just after she had met Gideon and Patience – the undeniable hatred is his eyes. "You sure you're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

Gideon gives a sly half-smile. "Is it working?" he asks.

Cordelia thinks for a second. "Kind of," she admits.

"Good," says Gideon, "because it really is the truth."

"Why didn't he say anything to me, then?" she asks.

Gideon shrugs. "Maybe he was afraid you would be angry. Or that he'd have to admit he was wrong. Rodolpho doesn't like to admit weakness."

Cordelia nods. That sounds about right. "So, uh, if you don't mind me asking," She says, "where's Patience?" _And would she like the idea of us being alone together?_ She adds, but only in her head.

"Oh," says Gideon. "Patience and I have been having some difficulties. We aren't sure the relationship is working."

Cordelia isn't quite sure what to make of this information, but she feels more happy than sorry to hear it. "Well, she seems kind of stuck-up," she says, but quickly backtracks. "I mean…sorry! I don't even know her. Geez, I can be so judgmental sometimes."

"No, you're right," says Gideon. "She's a good person, but she definitely likes to have things her way."

They are silent for a minute. For the first thirty seconds, it is a comfortable silence, but it quickly morphs into one of extreme awkwardness – the sort of silence Cordelia is unfortunately used to. "Hey, maybe we could do something some time. We could…" she trails off, once she realizes she doesn't have the slightest idea of what she and Gideon George could do together. "Or else maybe we could…"

"Sure," says Gideon. "Either of those." He chuckles lightly.

"Oh!" says Cordelia suddenly. "I know! We could do a horse walk!"

"Horseback ride?"

She shakes her head and smirks. "No, actually, the horses are so special that only my dad's allowed to ride them. But he told Nick and I that if we want to put their halters, we could take them for walks. Like dogs, I guess."

He smiles. "You know, yeah. Let's do that."


End file.
